


Laundry Day

by peachpety



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys doing Laundry, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpety/pseuds/peachpety
Summary: Harry and Draco have become close friends in the year after the war ends. Harry discovers he enjoys washing clothes the muggle way and when he switches to a new detergent, Draco notices. A simple domestic chore becomes the catalyst the boys need to take their friendship to the next level.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 82
Kudos: 522





	Laundry Day

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever AO3 post of my first ever Drarry fanfic, y’all, right here. I had so much fun with these magical boys (whom I do not own, but love with my whole heart). None of this would have been possible without my wonderful beta, tryx. Thanks, love! Hope y’all enjoy this little slice of life...cuz I sure enjoyed writing it. xoxo, peach
> 
> UPDATE 6/2020: Y'all. Look at this beautiful [fanart](https://garmrr.tumblr.com/post/620300251920842752/for-peachpety-based-on-their-fic-laundry-day-a) inspired by my lil fic that my sweet and talented pal, garmr, gifted to me! I am IN LOVE and truly blessed! <3
> 
> UPDATE #2 8/2020: Y'ALL AGAIN I AM BLESSED! More brilliant [fanart](https://garmrr.tumblr.com/post/627065288773533696/possible-origin-of-harrys-throw-rug-from-the) from the supremely talented and uber sweet garmr! It's Luna's throw rug and I DIE.

“You smell,” Draco says abruptly.

He’s on his fourth drink, or what Harry has come to think of as The Conversation Ender.

Harry smiles down at the familiar grooves mottling the wooden bartop. He raises his own glass in a mock toast. “Cheers.”

Draco rolls his eyes and glares at the handsome wizard who’s been leering at Harry all evening from across the dimly-lit pub. A new face in the familiar crowd is hard to ignore, especially one with that all-too-familiar star-struck, hungry expression. Harry sighs. This is why he prefers muggle pubs for their weekly meet-ups. 

Harry says, “Maybe you’re smelling the new high-end detergent Pansy gifted me.”

The wizard winks at Harry, then frowns at Draco and turns away. Draco lowers his obscene gesture, and smirks into his lifted glass. “Doesn’t do a very good job deterring, does it?” He downs the remaining whiskey in one swallow.

“It’s not a deterrent.” Harry chuckles. “Besides, I’ve got you for that. My own personal repelling charm.” 

Draco snorts. “Forgive me, oh Chosen One. I wasn’t aware you were interested in drooling sycophants.”

“You know I'm not. And it’s _detergent_ , not deterrent. Muggle soap for clothes.”

“How plebeian of you.”

Harry scratches his chin thoughtfully. “I like washing my clothes without magic. It’s calming and oddly therapeutic, the sorting and folding and pressing…”

“There’s a spell for that, idiot,” Draco interjects.

Harry shrugs. “I enjoy doing things with my hands.”

Draco glances sidelong at Harry’s hands. A blush blooms pink at the juncture of his sharp jawbone and his ear. He focuses back on his empty glass and scrunches his nose. “You smell... mossy.”

“I like it. It’s fresh.”

Draco shakes his head in disbelief. “Only you would enjoy smelling like a scruffy, mildewy, muscular, scruffy garden gnome.”

“You said scruffy twice,” Harry points out. He lifts his class to his lips and pauses. “Wait. You think I’m muscular?”

“I think you smell, Potter. Keep up!” Draco swivels on the barstool to face Harry and leans in close. Harry’s heart trips over a beat.

Draco inhales deeply before leaning away. The blush by his ear bleeds onto his cheeks. He lifts his glass as if to drink, realizes it’s empty, and sets it down again. “Definitely mossy. And do I detect a hint of a dank topnote?” 

Harry laughs. “Piss off!” He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks. “You know what? Since you like talking about it so much, Malfoy, you’re welcome to bring your laundry next time you come to mine.”

Draco frowns. “If I wanted to smell like a swamp, Potter, I’d muck about the Forbidden Forest before laundering my clothes like a house elf.”

* * *

They end up at Harry’s flat, like they have every week for the past year, drinking wine on the balcony and conversing with Pansy and Ron via Snapchat on Harry’s cell phone because Draco loves the filters. Draco eventually gets cold, like always, but tonight he steals one of Harry’s hoodies. It’s oversized. The long sleeves cover his hands so that just his fingers peek out. He leaves wearing it, and Harry lets him.

* * *

Harry is surprised a week later when Draco pops by unannounced at his flat with a large canvas laundry bag embroidered with his monogram…and Harry’s hoodie.

“It’s no longer mossy,” Draco complains.

He strides into Harry’s den and sets the bag down on the hooked throw rug covering the wood floor between the coffee table and the hearth. The rug, a gift from Luna, is bright red with a big lion head pattern in the middle. Draco constantly complains about it, but always ends up lolling about on it during game night and for late-night conversations after parties. It’s garish and awful, and Harry will never get rid of it.

Harry takes the hoodie, and narrows his eyes. “I thought you didn’t like the smell.”

Draco lifts his chin. “It has a certain robust, earthy undertone.”

“Like that red wine we had last night.”

Draco frowns. “It grew on me.”

Harry hums contemplatively. “Not unlike moss.”

Draco shoots a stinging spell at Harry’s arm. “It doesn’t smell, Potter. Make it so.”

“Fine,” Harry laughs, cringing and rubbing his bicep. “I’d be happy to show you how to wash it yourself.” He grins, and motions to Draco’s laundry bag. “Along with your other clothes, apparently.”

Draco folds his arms over his chest. “They were dirty anyway, and Hermione is always nattering on about relieving house elves' burdens. Something about ‘walking in their shoes to be empathetic to their plight’ which, by the way, is completely absurd. House elves don’t wear shoes.”

“Ok, then,” Harry says. He hoists the bag onto his shoulder. “We do laundry.”

Draco follows Harry down the hallway, past the kitchen, and into the laundry room. He frowns at the machines for a full minute. “Muggles are so bizarre,” he says finally.

Harry separates the clothing by color and fabric. He loads the machine, dispenses the detergent, and selects the settings. Draco scrutinizes Harry’s every move the entire time with the same focused intensity as when he brews potions. It’s a little scary and a lot sexy, and Harry decides he needs a drink.

* * * 

Harry pours the wine. Draco lounges on the counter, soft and relaxed in the freshly laundered hoodie, watching the spin cycle. The small room is warm and just humid enough to coax Draco’s hair into a light curl. Harry envisions that this is what Draco must look like after a thorough shag. Perhaps right there on his counter. It’s the perfect height, he thinks. He gulps down his wine.

“What is this?” Harry gestures to a small white satin bag Draco had earlier removed from his laundry bag. It’s embroidered with a green snake.

Draco levels a haughty gaze at him. “Those would be my unmentionables.”

Harry sniggers into his fist. “You keep your pants in a bag marked with a snake?” 

“And what would you have me keep them in, a burlap sack?” Draco snorts. “Barbarian.”

Harry joyfully pours more wine into his empty glass, and tops off Draco’s as well. “It’s just the irony, you know?”

Draco’s expression remains flat.

Harry continues, “The bag for your pants has a snake and your pants house your…” His ears flame hot and he takes a big gulp of wine. “Er, when this load is finished, we can wash your pants next.”

Draco’s lips twitch behind his wine glass as he takes a sip. “Heathen,” he mutters. “And no. Absolutely not. We are not putting my pants to tumble in that ghastly contraption.”

“There’s a delicate cycle.”

“This is imported silk, Potter. My house elves have been trained to handle the fabric with white gloves and a complex spell Mother created for this very purpose—”

“Ok, ok!” Harry runs his hand over the back of his head, ruffling up his hair. “I guess we can hand wash your pants.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “What’s a hand wash?”

“It’s exactly what you’d think, Malfoy.”

* * *

Draco is highly skeptical watching Harry fill up the basin with water – _What temperature did you use, Potter? Better not be hot_ – and add detergent – _Did you add enough? Too much might compromise the fibers_. Draco’s pants are all manner of colors and patterns, some of which are quite cheeky. Harry presses his lips together and stifles a laugh. 

“One word, Potter, and I’ll hex your balls off,” Draco growls.

Harry picks up a pair of Draco’s pants to toss in the basin. They’re red with golden snitches, and are without a doubt Harry’s personal favorite. He has no problem picturing them pooled around Draco’s ankles.

Draco launches himself off the counter. He yanks the pants from Harry’s hands. “Quit manhandling my pants with your big oaf hands, Potter! For fuck’s sake, I’ll do it.”

He nudges Harry out of the way with his hip and carefully places the garments in the water. “So now we just, what? Let them stew?”

Harry struggles to keep a straight face. “Now you have to agitate with your hands. Hence the term ‘hand wash’.”

Draco stares at him, aghast. “You expect me to put my hands in this filthy pants soup?”

“They’re your filthy pants! I’d do it, but,” Harry holds up his hands, fingers spread, “my gargantuan hands are obviously too strong. I wouldn’t want to tear the fabric.”

Draco’s gaze falls to Harry’s hands, and the pink blush blooms. “I never said they were strong. Just…big,” he finishes lamely.

Harry makes a move toward the basin, and Draco blocks him with his body. “You just want to get your big hands on my pants,” Draco mutters.

A whisper beneath Harry’s breath. _Maybe in them_.

“What?”

The dryer buzzer saves him.

* * *

The next week, Draco shows up with his laundry bag, a laundry basket, and a bottle of wine. He’s brought his sheets, too, also monogrammed. They smell like Draco, and it takes all Harry’s effort to not bury his face in the fabric. It’s almost a shame to wash them.

Draco motions to Harry’s bedroom as they walk past on the way to the laundry room. “Should we do your sheets as well?” he asks.

“Mine are still fresh,” Harry says. “It’s just me sleeping in them.”

A small smile flashes across Draco’s lips so quickly Harry doubts its existence. The smirk that follows, however, he knows all too well. 

“Pity, that,” Draco says.

He summons the hoodie Harry now refers to as The Favorite, and pulls it on over his head, mussing up his hair in the process. It’s completely adorable, and Harry quickly retreats to the laundry room.

* * *

Draco sips his wine and uses magic to stir his unmentionables soaking in the basin – _It’s technically hand washing, Potter. The soap dries my cuticles_. He’s got that intense look about him again, trained on the task at hand.

“I’m surprised,” Draco says suddenly. 

“Frankly, I am, too,” Harry says. “You’ve always insisted that doing the work of a house elf is,” Harry purses his lips and looks down his nose, “beneath you.”

Draco flicks water at him. “I’m surprised at the freshness of your sheets, you buffoon,” he says. “You seemed to be getting on quite well with that blind date Ginevra set you up with the other night.”

Harry shrugs. Draco continues to stir his clothes.

“He’s fit,” Draco says finally, spat like an insult. “Quidditch player?”

“He’s a personal trainer, I think. He runs marathons or something. He wants to go to dinner tonight.”

Draco’s expression remains fixed, but his stirring intensifies. Bubbles begin to foam.

“I’m not going,” Harry reassures him. “I mean, it’s laundry day.”

Draco pauses. His shoulders relax, and the stirring resumes.

* * *

The week after that, Draco brings a new bottle of detergent along with another bottle of wine. He also has liquid softener.

“Pansy says your water is too ‘hard’,” he brags knowingly, breezing by Harry and heading to the laundry room. “And I like soft sheets against my skin.”

An image of Draco sprawled naked in his sheets pops into Harry’s mind. “Er, me, too.” He clears his throat. “My sheets are 600 thread count Egyptian cotton.”

Draco pauses sorting his clothes. “And are we washing them today?”

Harry shakes his head. “Still fresh.”

Draco resumes sorting, and this time, there’s no mistaking the small smile gracing his lips. 

* * *

Harry removes Draco’s sheets from the dryer and sets them on the counter. He raises his eyebrows at Draco, who has his wand at the ready, and a glint in his eye. He’s pulled the sleeves of the favorite hoodie down so his hands are completely hidden. It’s cute as fuck, and Harry’s been half-hard all afternoon.

“What’s this about?” Harry asks, gesturing at the wand.

Without a word, Draco flourishes his wand in a complicated pattern. The fitted sheet rises up. The corners tuck together and the sheet folds and folds again, forming a neat square. Draco smirks, clearly quite pleased with himself. “I may have watched a movie tube on Pansy’s muggle phone.”

“A…movie tube? You mean a YouTube video?”

Draco scoffs. “Whatever. A delightfully smug woman named Martha talked me through it. She’s quite crafty. I watched several of her vid-e-ohs. Bloody brilliant, that one.”

Harry blinks, stunned, his brain shortcircuiting on the fact that Draco learned how to fold a fucking sheet from a muggle. It’s simply too much.

Draco raises his wand again, intending to repeat his folding spell, but Harry stops him.

“Wait,” he says. “The flat sheet we should fold without magic.”

“Why? I can get the edges nice and sharp.”

Harry sighs. “Just humor me.”

Draco grumbles. Harry distinctly hears the words _house elf_ and _manual labor_.

* * *

They each take opposite sides of the sheet in hand. Harry steps back to take up the slack. He folds the sheet lengthwise, and takes up the folded corner. Draco mirrors him, but when he takes his folded corner, the sheet twists in the middle.

“The other way,” Harry says. “I’ll just—”

He flips his corners as Draco does the same. The twist reforms.

Draco glares. “This wouldn’t be a problem with magic.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “OK, you stay, and I’ll twist. Now, I’ll come to you.”

Draco’s glare softens with each forward step until Harry is close enough to get lost in the gold flecks of Draco’s grey eyes. The sheet hangs folded between them.

“Now what?” Draco says softly.

Harry swallows hard. “Er,” he says, “take my corners with yours.”

Draco complies. Harry deliberately caresses his fingers against Draco’s, rubbing soft circles on the delicate skin between his knuckles. He then squats down to take hold of the hanging folded edge. Draco’s breath hitches, and Harry glances up. Draco stares at him, pupils big and dark. A puff of breath dislodges a strand of hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. 

“This is an absurd way to fold sheets,” he says, his voice missing its usual conviction.

“Is it?” Harry tilts his head. “I think it’s brilliant.”

A muscle in Draco’s jaw twitches.

Harry stands and steps back, pulling the sheet taut. He shakes it to smooth the wrinkles, and to mask his trembling hands. “Another fold, yeah?”

They fold lengthwise again, but this time, before Harry moves, Draco steps forward. He hands Harry his corners, and presses his palms flat against Harry’s chest. Heat pools at the base of Harry’s spine. Draco brushes his fingertips, slow and soft, down Harry’s torso, and then takes hold of the bottom fold. He steps back. His face is carefully blank, but his cheeks are burning pink. He parts his lips and moistens them. Harry is fully hard now. 

“One more fold?” Draco asks breathily.

Harry nods, mute. 

They fold the sheet and, in unison, step toward each other, eyes locked. The sheet drops to the floor. Harry's heart roars in his ears, pounding as if to kick a hole in his chest. His skin barely contains the heat burning through his veins.

Draco’s gaze drifts down to Harry’s mouth, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Harry bites his bottom lip, and Draco lets out a small moan. Harry slides his hands under the hoodie, grabs Draco’s hips, and pulls Draco’s body against his. Draco buries his fingers in the hair at Harry’s nape. He presses his forehead against Harry’s.

“You’ve been driving me mad for months, Potter. _Months_ ,” he says.

“Likewise.”

Draco nuzzles Harry’s neck and inhales, filling his lungs. “How dare you smell so bloody good.”

Harry slips his hands around Draco’s back and cups his arse. “How dare you look so bloody sexy in my hoodie.”

“ _Fuck_ , I want you, Harry.”

“I’m all yours, Draco.”

“Good. Because after we destroy that counter over there, I want you and me and your big fucking hands to go defile those pristine 600 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets of yours. And then wash, rinse, and repeat.” He smirks. “It is laundry day, after all.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I’m warning you, Malfoy. That’s going to be a lot of washing.”

“And folding. Scared, Potter?”

Harry grins and leans in. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Find me indulgently lurking on [tumblr](http://peachpety.tumblr.com/).


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